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forty-two

Today afforded me a chance for accidental introspection. It was just the right mix of place (the desk at the Rourke) and time (a long afternoon greeting guests and orienting them to the exhibits) and people (a few folks I haven’t seen in a long time). And just enough time “on my own” to wonder about the meaning I’d like to find for life. Mine, of course; yours is your own affair. Sorry to be a downer on this pleasant afternoon, but I’m just not coming up with a satisfying answer.

Truth, whatever that may be, comes to me from all directions. Today I find myself clinging to a quote from Monty Python’s “Meaning of Life”:

Well, it’s nothing very special. Try to be nice to people, avoid eating fat, read a good book every now and then, get some walking in, and try and live together in peace and harmony with people of all creeds and nations. And, finally, here are some completely gratuitous pictures of penises to annoy the censors and to hopefully spark some sort of controversy, which it seems is the only way these days to get the jaded, video-sated public off their fucking arses and back in the sodding cinema. Family entertainment? Bollocks. What they want is filth: people doing things to each other with chainsaws during tupperware parties, babysitters being stabbed with knitting needles by gay presidential candidates, vigilante groups strangling chickens, armed bands of theatre critics exterminating mutant goats. Where’s the fun in pictures? Oh, well, there we are. Here’s the theme music. Goodnight.

Goodnight, indeed.


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